It was about a half-hour cab ride to the palatial Castleman estate. They arrived early, which allotted them time to roam the thick wood that separates the estate from the city proper. Hilliard took in the fresh afternoon air, reinvigorating himself as his mind wandered to the thought of Cordelia. His mind began to drift to the thought of the treasures hidden away behind her corset and skirt, a thought that he would have nixed before, but now he dared to take a small delight in.
“Hilliard,” Jasper called, breaking his daydream, “let us adjourn to the estate. We should be expected.”
With that, Jasper led Hilliard to the door of the Castleman estate. There was a short, thick rope that hung from the exterior wall. Jasper pulled it, and a surprisingly deep, resonant gong could be heard reverberating within the walls of the house.
They waited at the door for a few moments before the cherry wood door was opened. There, before the pair, stood an ancient man in full livery. This was Mr Castleman’s valet.
“Good day master Merchant, master Purefoy,” the valet droned, bowing slightly at the waist, “master Castleman is expecting you. He shall receive you in the red room.”
The valet moved aside and cast out his arm, welcoming the two in. Jasper nodded and walked in. Hilliard followed, feeling a little out of place. The valet closed the door with nary a sound and brought up the rear.
“The red room,” Hilliard pondered aloud.
“Yes, sir,” croaked the ancient butler, “it is aptly named. Master Castleman’s father had enjoyed vermillion hues, so he had an entire room decorated in red.”
“That makes sense.”
“Indeed, sir. To your right, master Merchant. Second door on the left.”
Merchant waved off the instructions without looking back.
“I can remember my way around this place Heston, but thank you for your regards, nonetheless.”
“Quite right, sir.”
They entered the red room, and the name was not misleading. The entirety of the room was bedecked in cardinal, scarlet and vermillion. It was nearly blinding. Castleman sat in a burgundy oxblood chair reading a book of Poe.
“Francis!”
“Jasper, my good man!”
The two old friends embraced in a warm hug. Francis was about twice Jasper’s age, most likely in his mid forties, but he looked as spry as a schoolboy. He wore a waxed mustache and a fine purple waistcoat with tails, riding pants and white gloves. He was nearly an anachronism, much like his valet, but Hilliard waved the thought off.
“Francis, this is my good friend Hilliard Purefoy. He was the one that was interested in your library and your father’s research.”
Hilliard reached out his hand for a shake.
“Good to meet you, Mr Castleman.”
Francis took his hand in a rather limp, almost foppish handshake.
“Eh, an American? We won’t hold that against you!”
Francis laughed, and Jasper urged Hilliard to do the same. The joke was not mean-spirited, it was just plain not funny. Hilliard could tell that Castleman fancied himself much more than he was.
“Well, my father’s work is all tucked away in here. Of course it would be in his favourite room. So, have a go, take what you need, leave the rest. Eh, it’s nearly afternoon tea.”
Francis whirled round to face Heston, who had not yet budged from the doorway.’
“Heston, three for tea please. Eh, I think the oolong.”
“If I may sir, but the oolong is a bit gauche for afternoon tea. May I suggest the darjeeling?”
“Oh, fine. Eh, watercress sandwiches, strawberries and cream, oh, and madeleines and scones.”
“A full tea, then, sir?”
“Yes, yes. Off you go, Heston. Thank you.”
Heston bowed and exited as quiet as death. Francis turned back to face his friends.
“Father’s encyclopaedia on runes is, eh, oh damn, this- no… hold a tick, this one!”
Francis clumsily drew from the shelf a leatherbound book. It was apparent that it had not been opened in some time. He pulled several more books from their places and plopped them without ceremony on the desk.
“Eh, I believe these will help sort you out should you find troubling waters. And, eh, I believe father kept a journal in the desk that regarded his personal findings and musings about some cults or some rot. I, eh, never found the damn thing useful.”
Dusting his hands off, Francis strolled over to a large, wooden globe. He gently pushed the northern hemisphere open to reveal a cache of cigars. He offered one to Hilliard, who declined, then to Jasper who accepted. They puffed their cigars as Hilliard poured over handwritten notes and books and etchings and sketchings and academic papers.
He started with the obvious, the translation of the runes to their English equivalent. This provided nothing that he hadn’t already discerned. Moving from that, he poured over the volumes looking for an ascribed meaning to the runes in general. This seemed to be a more fruitful endeavour.
“The first rune that was found by the prostitute,” Hilliard exclaimed, startling Francis and Jasper and causing the latter to choke on his cigar, “that was a pertho. I tried to translate it directly into English, but I don’t think that is what was meant. The Norse believed it to represent sexualtiy.”
“I’m sure that, eh, being a woman of the night,” scoffed Francis, “that her sexuality was very useful.”
Hilliard scribbled furiously into his notebook. He may be onto something.
“Jasper, hand me my copy of the Times, will you?”
Jasper quickly retrieved the newspaper and handed it over to Hilliard. He scanned the front page before circling two spots in pencil. He then returned to scanning the massive book that lay open next to him.
“The priest was marked with an ansuz. This, I thought, had look familiar. This is the symbol for Odin, their main god.”
“He marked a man of God with a symbol for a pagan god?”
Jasper seemed to be intrigued. He could see, now, why the media made such a sensation out of these maniacs.
“Go on, Purefoy, go on.”
Hilliard put a finger in the air, gesturing for Jasper to be patient. He was reading through the book once more and jotting notes as he went.
“The constable, his forehead was carved with a tiwaz, the symbol of authority and justice.”
“That seems to fit the constable, yeah?”
Now it was Francis who was curious. He always did love a good whodunit.
“So this killer is ascribing symbols that correlate to the victims’ occupation? To what end?”
Hilliard rubbed his chin and tapped is nose with the end of his pencil.
“That, my dear Castleman, is the real question. Perhaps he doesn’t approve of the people he kills?”
Hilliard shook his head at his own theory.
“But I believe there is more to it than that. Francis, would you mind terribly if I borrowed some of these books? I think I may be onto something.”
Francis waved his hand, causing ash to fall from the end of his cigar.
“Not at all, chap. Eh, they aren’t doing much good here with me.”
Hilliard thanked Francis for his hospitality and gathered up three books he thought would help illuminate the investigation. Heston entered pushing a trolley stacked with a kettle, three tea cups, sandwiches and cakes.
“Tea, sir,” he bowed and exited.
“Eh, well, gents, let us take tea.”
Francis clapped his hands eagerly and began to pour.
“Jasper, how do you take it?”
“Two sugars and cream, please, Castleman.”
Francis nodded and daintily dropped two sugar cubes and gently poured a dash of cream in Jasper’s cup. He placed it on a saucer and served it to his friend.
“And, eh, how about you, Purefoy? You Americans do drink tea, don’t you, and not just push it into the harbour?”
Francis chuckled at his own joke, and even Hilliard had to agree that it was rather amusing.
“We don’t consume it quite like you chaps, but yes, I do take it. One sugar, no cream, thank you.”
Castleman again prepared the tea and the three sat and chatted over watercress sandwiches and cakes and made rather polite, though dull, conversation. The topic of the murders was never broached, that string of conversation was not polite tea talk. Instead, the talked cricket, the Oxford-Cambridge boat race, the weather, and the course of the country, to which Castleman had many things to say.
After tea, the three said their goodbyes and Heston showed Hilliard and Jasper out. A cab had been arranged by Heston and the two friends climbed in and the thirty minute ride back to London proper was on.
“What do you think is going on with this whole debacle, Purefoy?”
Hilliard was running his fingers over one of the books he had borrowed from Castleman.
“I’m not sure, but I think I’ve struck a vein, as it were. There must be something more to these runes. There is a reasoning, a meaning behind who and why and what rune is left behind is another breadcrumb. I intend to suss out the meaning and inform the CID once I do.”
Jasper nodded.
“That’s a good lad. It’s all too interesting to say the least. Should you need any help, you know how to find me.”
Hilliard nodded and turned the new information over in his mind. There had to be something more to these murders than simple random acts of violence. There was something larger at play, but he could not place his finger on it.
He tapped his fingers on the books as the cab drove through central London towards Hilliard’s flat. He planned on staying up with the books to strike while the iron was hot. The idea of the runes having a ritualistic meaning was not something he had originally considered, and something that he was surprised he overlooked in the first place.
The cab pulled to a stop in front of the block of apartments that housed Hilliard’s own. He climbed out of the carriage and bid his friend farewell. He hugged the bundle of books to his chest and made his way into his apartment.
Taking meticulous care not to harm the volumes, Hilliard lay open each book, two on his writing desk and one on the bed, and then opened his notebook to where he had left off. He jotted some ideas down, side thoughts, and observations before he dove back into his investigation.